


for when the road disappears and you're freefalling

by wintersonata



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Lots of Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26321053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersonata/pseuds/wintersonata
Summary: AU following 1x08. Character studies of Carla, Polo and Christian.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Christian Varela Expósito, Carla Rosón Caleruega/Christian Varela Expósito/Leopoldo "Polo" Benavent Villada, Carla Rosón Caleruega/Leopoldo "Polo" Benavent Villada
Comments: 13
Kudos: 17





	1. Whatever will be, will be

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: attempted suicide, anxiety attacks, hardcore drug use, gaslighting/emotional manipulation, exploration of co-dependency and finally, dubious consent because these kids are always having sex with an agenda :).
> 
> So basically— I had a lot of gripes about season 3, the biggest being that Carla’s character was kind of ruined by how much of a victim they wrote her to be, it seemed really inconsistent with her more ice queen self in season 1. That being said … Polo, what a king. Really carried the show, him & Guzmán probably had the best development in the entire series. 
> 
> Anyway, this is purely experimental, I just wanted to probe Carla/Polo/Christian’s dynamic a little further and kind of see what binds them and makes each of them function while still maintaining a series of events that explores Carla in a way truer to her season 1 self. 
> 
> I think this goes without saying, but just in case: major spoilers for seasons 1 and 2.

## chapter 1: whatever will be, will be.

* * *

‘You don’t think it’s Christian.’ Polo realises. Carla tucks several locks behind her ear, a gesture he’s come to learn means she’s — truly — deep in thought. If it were as simple as Christian taking a few of her father’s watches, he knows they both wouldn’t care so much. Teodoro reminds him of a time in his life when he was small and helpless, back when his stutter ruled his every waking moment. Every now and then, Teodoro still provokes it. 

And Carla — Polo knows everything she does is carefully measured to scratch at her father somehow, the same way a cat might rebuff its owner. She can only inflict so much rebellion on him because she isn’t Marina, she isn’t silly enough to bite the hand that feeds. Yet, she is his girlfriend — Polo, the boy who a few years ago wore heavyset glasses and buttoned his shirt all the way up to the top. Angelic, sensitive and spineless Polo; not like Guzmán, the chivalrous sort, nor Ander (who after all, they’ve only recently learned is gay), the mysterious athlete. 

Just as Carla isn’t stupid enough to openly lash out against his father, Polo isn’t silly enough to believe Carla is deeply, madly and truly in love with him. He’s the one Teodoro would frown at; would take his daughter aside over and ask her if this is really her boyfriend. It could be worse — it could be as bad as Marina dating Samuel. At least, between his wealth and his pristine school records, he’s reputable enough that Teodoro doesn’t have grounds to openly voice his rejection. 

Seated here, in one of the many rooms of her house, as they talk about this theft, he wants to believe that there is still something between them — something palpable and real in the way she’s confiding her thoughts in him. 

It has to mean something. 

It has to mean something because he imagines himself without Carla: shy and helpless all over again, walking with his shoulders hunched and his backpack barely remaining on his shoulders and pushing his thick glasses up his nose hundreds of times in a day. He imagines Guzmán slapping him on the back and telling him to get over it, Ander shrugging and going back to whatever it is he does these days — Polo’s not sure. 

He can’t lose Carla. He can’t lose Carla. He can’t lose Carla to Christian, a street rat — the kind of boy Teodoro would never allow his precious daughter near because he isn’t rich or reputable. His thoughts are spiralling again, out of control:

One: Guzmán rough fingers around his left shoulder, shaking him lightly. ‘He’s stealing your girlfriend right under your nose and only you would be stupid enough to let him get away with it.’

Two: An imagination of his future. Carla and Christian walking along the hallway, both of them expertly avoiding his gaze as they chat and loop arms. Carla tilts her head upwards, lightly tapping her finger to Christian’s nose. They laugh and somehow in his mind’s eye, they fit so well together. 

Three: What if this is it — what if she’s bored, what if the threesome wasn’t enough, what if the threesome was only an excuse to slowly distance herself from him so she could find someone more exciting, more confident, more fun. Someone so unlike him … someone Teodoro would disapprove of even more … no—

‘Gut feeling,’ Carla says, though it’s not quite that. She never relies just on a feeling. ‘They broke into my house; they knew how to get in, Polo. They knew exactly where those watches were. I think it’s Marina.’

Polo startles, pulled out of his thoughts as she speaks. He blinks, registering the words like a domino cascade and nods at her revelation. He leans forward, partially interested and partially playing the role of a dutiful boyfriend. 

This, too, is a carefully laid plan — one that he’s not privy to yet. 

‘I think it’s Marina,’ she repeats. ‘No, I’m sure it’s her.’ 

She worries at her lower lip; one of the few signs that she’s genuinely perplexed. He draws a breath, reluctant to believe it — almost afraid of letting himself embrace the thought. If Guzmán ever caught wind of this, he’d bash Polo’s face in without a second thought for even suggesting that Marina would steal something. It’s very likely — in fact, thinking about it, it makes even more sense than Christian being the culprit. ‘Yeah, I think you’re right.’ Polo agrees. 

‘Isn’t she disgusting?’ Carla hums, as if bringing up the weather. How sweet she seems, he thinks, her cheek now nestled in her palm and her slender fingers fanned out over the side of her face. Her nails are painted a dewy pink, gently contrasting the light glow of her make up. ‘Taking her own godfather’s watches, and what for? To help Samuel, I suppose. By stabbing her own family in the back. It really tells you …’ Carla pauses, reaching for a sip of her wine. ‘It really tells you how strange some people’s priorities are, doesn’t it?’

She looks up, meeting his eyes and all he can think is that he can’t lose her. They are: Carla and Polo. What would he be as simply Polo? 

—  
‘Marina, you should know,’ Carla begins smoothly, but with an undercurrent of authority. They’ve hijacked an empty classroom for this discussion, but as expected, Marina is unamused at having to sacrifice any time out of her day to talk to Carla. ‘That I think you’re doing something extremely stupid.’ 

Carla’s fingers interlace and she sets her hands on the desk. A distant memory strikes her for a moment; her father used to look at her this way, with this exact gesture, when he would reprimand her. 

She straightens, regarding Marina again. 

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ 

‘I thought you might say that.’ Carla scoffs. ‘I know why you have the watch.’

To Marina’s credit, she barely twitches and examines the chipped edge of a nail boredly. 

‘The watch is safe, okay? I’m not letting anyone see what’s inside it.’ She busies herself now with putting her unruly curls into a bun. Then, as if offering a solution: ‘So what’s the problem now?’

The problem — well, there is a problem but Carla has to remind herself that everyone is not her father. Everyone will not give her that disappointed, half-believing look that her father gives her. Nobody knows that she told him she knew how to handle the situation; that she had it under control. 

Of course, she can tell him it’s out of her hands now, that her best efforts will accomplish nothing. Her father will understand, of course, and then he will say: you are only a child, what could you have done anyway? 

Carla: only sixteen, but wise beyond her years. Carla, the marchioness in the making, trained and trained since early childhood to be a leader, a thinker, an executive. Now, she faces defeat and she will have to relay it to her father. 

The chair rattles as Marina stands and strides towards the door. Carla breathes deep to keep her composure, to keep her gaze trained on her former friend just for the few seconds they remain together in the room. 

Then, her shoulders slump and the gears in her mind spin faster than ever. 

—  
‘Papa, I know who it is.’ 

Carla folds her arms and leans against the bannister. Her father pauses in his steps, slipping his phone into his pocket which she knows is a sure sign that she has his full attention. No investor will interrupt this. 

‘Do tell.’ Teodoro slips into a seat and with a single glance thrown to the chaise opposite him, he invites his daughter to join him. Carla obliges, crossing her legs and resting her hands one atop the other on her knee. 

Every interaction is a game of cat and mouse with her father — people are easy to read and understand, but not her father. Her mother is built on pride, the same as Guzmán but in a more refined way. Old money Christians who hold their values sacred and think themselves to be people of class. Guzmán’s pride is accompanied by anger; it’s quite unbecoming. Polo is meek and shy, desperate for validation and ready to take direction from anyone because he could never tell left from right on his own. Lu, like Polo, is desperate for validation but she’s afraid of showing as much vulnerability. Marina, a foolish rebel who just wants to make a statement. 

Her father doesn’t have these tells — but everything she learned about understanding people is from him and maybe it will be many years before she learns to beat him at his own game. 

‘The person who took the watches, I looked into it,’ Carla says. ‘It’s Marina.’ 

Teodoro nods, considering the information. 

‘I’ll have to have a word with Ventura.’ 

On some level, she thinks her father already knew and already suspected as much. Marina has been acting out for a while — first with Pablo, then at the event her mother hosted where she tried to sneak Samuel in. Carla suspects there’s more than those incidents, but she has better things to do than keep up with the gossip Lu feeds her and she’s sure most of it has to do with Marina fraternising with Samuel, which she’s well aware of as is.

This is how he shows affection: he let her have this moment, as if she gave him something of value by relaying this information to her. Carla knows. 

‘Thank you, dear.’ Teodoro’s lips pull a little wider. ‘You’ve helped immensely.’ 

But not enough. 

—  
Carla imagines what her father’s conversation with Marina’s will be like. They’ll frown as they discuss the matter, then Marina’s entire family will gather in their cold and angular living room to confront the woman of the hour. Marina will spill the truth to them to taunt them — there are an endless sea of possibilities here, but all of them involve Samuel. Perhaps she’s gone off her medication and managed to infect Samuel so he needs the money for treatment. Or his scholarship won’t cover the school’s fees for next year … or his brother’s in trouble again … truly, an infinite number of possibilities but Carla has little sympathy for any of them. 

She knows what true love is; true love is how she chooses to be with Polo even though the feelings have receded and she cares about Polo in some way but it’s not quite the right way. A friend, a brother, a confidant … something that isn’t a boyfriend. They have such an emotional intimacy, a sort of understanding that doesn’t require spoken words. She knows Polo — what he wants, what he fears. Marina only jumps at what seems thrilling; a new toy every year. 

But she has Christian and she doesn’t miss the hypocrisy of her own thoughts. Christian is a game; a new exciting game because Polo is a chore. 

She scrambles off her bed as the front door creaks open with her father’s return, though she makes her way downstairs gracefully, hiding her eagerness behind a veneer of polite curiosity. ‘How did it go, Papa?’

‘It’s worse than we thought, my dear.’ Teodoro shrugs off his jacket with a sigh. ‘She’s running away with that boy’s brother, the one who was just released on parole. And she’s having his child too.’ 

For once, the weight of the world is clear in her father’s posture, in his weary expression, as if he could sense the imminent end of everything he built so carefully with Ventura. 

Where her father can do nothing, there is something she can still try. 

—  
‘Carla, I can’t live without you,’ Polo says, on his knees. His sad gift remains tossed to the side, the lid askew and revealing the delicate chain contained within. The one Carla took a look at and said was his way of buying her; if she had a price, he couldn’t afford it. 

When she tells him he can, that he likes boys more anyway, she knows exactly what she is doing. 

Even though she’s broken things off with Polo, she knows it won’t be easy to get rid of him. In a way, it keeps him even closer to her than when they had been together. 

Polo rises, almost trembling with the effort because the finality of her words strikes him. Now, he is anchorless, freed in one sense and condemned in another. As he leaves for home, he walks in a daze, barely remembering to go through the motions of greeting his mother as he slips into the car. His imagination will be a reality tomorrow; that must be what she meant.

The sex with Christian wasn’t worth this. 

It was alright — no, it was good — but this feeling of helplessness, of not knowing where to go next, of not having Carla on his side, by his side anymore hurts him so deeply and so viciously, that he wishes he could go back in time and never have guided Christian’s hand to his erect dick. And then the regret changes, slowly becoming something else — something between jealousy and rage because Christian is a street rat, a scholarship student, a sad, poor failure. The most his parents expected of him was to not end up under a bridge, high off his face. 

Surely — surely he couldn’t have lost Carla to someone like that. Surely he couldn’t be less worthy, less valuable, less interesting, less loved … 

Polo dips his head, tuning Andrea’s questions out as his vision greys at the edges and the beginnings of an anxiety attack claw at his throat. He manages to hold himself together for just long enough to escape his mother’s questions and fall apart on his bedroom floor. 

It’s unfair, everything is unfair. He struggles to breathe for several seconds once he dry-swallows his pills, waiting for the calm to wash over him eventually. It always feels like he’s being smothered by his own emotions. The desperation gnaws at his stomach; he wants Carla back and he wants Christian gone but he’s too tired to pick up his phone and call her. 

So he lies on the floor, spent. He thinks about the contempt in Carla’s eyes, the way she spoke, and the way he can’t fathom being without her because they were Carla and Polo. They were Carla and Polo, the past tense sends a fresh wave of fear over him. 

Of course he has Guzmán and Ander, but Ander is busy with that drug dealer he’s been seeing (should he be more worried about that? He can’t find it in himself right now) and Guzmán would tell him to suck it up and do something.

How lonely. 

He’s nowhere to go, no one to go to and this is a sort of pain he had not foreseen. It hits like an anvil dropping into the pit of his stomach. He decides to skip dinner. 

At school the day after, Guzmán tells him to do something, but what’s left to do now? 

He still can’t look Carla in the eye, but he can summon enough anger to shove Christian against a wall and tell him he’ll never have Carla either.

What he means: if I can’t have her, you can’t either. 

—  
Things are different with Christian; certainly lighter and more relaxed. With Polo, she had to be careful about what he might tell Guzmán, which will inevitably travel in a loop and come back to her father. 

Of course, Polo gave in to her every whim. Christian has a spine and has a lot less to lose; no money and no reputation. 

‘He’s gone now,’ Carla smiles, setting a hand on Christian’s chest. She plays with the lapel of his jacket, the one she bought for him. There’s a tiny stain on the inner edge — a wine stain from several nights ago when they had dinner together. 

‘So now I get to be your boyfriend?’ Christian is eager and blatant, it’s refreshing. Polo was always so hesitant about his desires. ‘Or am I still a dick on legs? Tell me when I get promoted already.’ 

Carla laughs. To keep Polo close, she had to make him desperately crave her return. To keep Christian close, she has to give in to his demands. 

‘Are you saying,’ she begins, shifting a little closer to him. They’re on the floor and her bare knees brush against the cloth of his pants. ‘That you’ll take me on a date then? How gentlemanly.’

‘You didn’t think I had it in me, eh?’ Christian leans closer and his breath ghosts against the apples of her cheeks. She stares into his bright eyes, brilliantly blue but somehow so much more colourful than Polo’s had ever been. 

There’s tension in the air — sort of — but her heart isn’t skipping a beat. She needs Christian as much as she needs Polo. She needs someone to be her yes-man; someone who will listen and perform, someone so enamoured with her he wouldn’t think so say no. 

‘I like surprises.’ Carla smiles instead, leaning forward to peck him on the lips. With their relationship somehow having declined from steamy constant threesomes to a teenage romance, there’s more space for these innocent interactions. Christian seems to like it more. 

—  
Christian wants one thing from Carla — companionship. She’s gorgeous and though his goals are undoubtedly affected by the stirring in his pants, he wants to break into the ranks of the unimaginably rich. He wants their friendship, their loyalty — to stand as one of them — he wants their equality. It must be nice to have the kind of money that leaves you careless about price tags.

His world is of small, cramped houses with moss-covered rooftops and smashed-in windows; secondhand motorcycles with scratched up helmets hanging off their handlebars; every second person having a sibling dead to cocaine overdoses; and bloodstains drying on carpets and cobblestone. Here, people have killed for less than what one of Carla’s lipsticks must cost. 

Being Carla and Polo’s pet-threesome mate-friend was far from ideal, especially considering Polo did nothing for him but this situation — Polo out of the picture, Carla still vulnerable from the infidelity and break up, is the perfect opportunity for him to offer to fill the void. Somehow he doubts that’s what Carla wants or needs, but _he_ wants it and that’s a good enough reason to try. 

He and Carla end up at a bridge — the one with the view of the lake, not far from the burger joint where Samuel works. 

‘Pretty great view, huh?’ Carla remarks, glancing from the blue-green expanse to his face. Christian grins. 

‘Not as great as you.’ 

‘You had to know that was bad.’ She pushes against his arm lightly, teasing. He laughs, wrapping an arm around her waist and they stand close together, neither of them really taking in the lavish scenery. Their minds are on other things; how both of them need each other’s intimacy, yet for such different reasons.

Christian dips, pressing a kiss to Carla’s cheek as she offers it to him, tilting her face slightly. He inches a little closer, kissing the corner of her mouth, then capturing her lips — it’s a small gesture, so simple and any minute now he expects Carla to start unbuttoning his shirt and asking him if he’s ever had sex in out in the open under the sunset. Rich kids are kinky freaks with too much time and libido, he’s come to learn. 

Instead, her palm finds his cheek, cupping it, her thumb resting on his cheekbone. It’s almost intimate. 

Carla pulls away first, still holding his face. She whispers, holding steady eye contact. 

‘Feeling promoted yet?’ 

—  
This is the part of her plan that is unplanned, but it works so much in her favour that Carla convinces herself the gods above were nudging her towards this.

She’s in the library, head low and eyes glassy over. Only one thing plays on her mind — or rather, only one thing has been playing on her mind as she notes the time with a despairing regularity. It’s been five weeks since the watches were taken; any day now, the contents of that hard drive could be leaked. She doesn’t like thinking about the world where that happens — the world where the wineries are shut down, her parents separate and she’ll never be able to walk with her head up again. 

A marchioness in the making, she reminds herself. That is her future, it has been since she was a small child. It still will be. 

‘Carla?’ 

She looks up and the force of the action sends a damp streak along the contour of her left cheek. Polo hovers by her desk awkwardly, the setting sun casting a warm glow over his handsome features through the window. She hates that she thinks that. She hates the familiarity Polo brings because she could never let herself by this way around Christian. 

He’s a boyfriend for fun and thrills. A game. 

Carla shakes her head, swiping at her cheek. ‘What do you want? I’m busy.’

‘With … what?’ She must be in a state if even Polo can find it in him to express his scepticism. ‘Listen— I, if this is about beating up Christian the other day … his friend got Marina _pregnant_ , you know how Guzmán is about _them_.’

‘I have bigger fish to fry, Polo.’ Carla snaps. It takes all of two seconds for her irritation to fade because Polo shrinks a little, clearly planning to retreat. ‘I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

His face is a shutterplay of various emotions; first surprise, then more surprise, then it softens into sympathy. ‘It’s about the watch, right?’

Carla resists the urge to snap again as he slips into the seat opposite her. She reaches for his hand, toying with the edge of cuff, as if hesitating to go any further. Polo doesn’t shy from her touch; she knows he wants more. 

‘I need it back, Polo.’ Her voice breaks a little as she says his name. ‘I _really_ need it back.’

Polo knows about her father. 

Polo knows enough to know what she means; how desperately she needs it. 

—  
Nothing happens for several days, so Carla assumes Polo went home and thought about helping but couldn’t muster the gumption to act on said desire to help. Her only choice now is Christian; Christian who she can’t be as honest with, but she gave him what he wanted. Her exclusivity. Surely she can strike a deal with him.

Polo might have needed her as an anchor, but Christian needs her for his own ego — his need to be a man who protects her, a delicate heiress.

She tells him about Marina’s locker to convince him to break into it and he doesn’t. 

‘I want to be an—‘ _equal_. ‘Not your dick on legs, not your personal on call thief or whatever.’ 

She’s almost ready to give up; the watch is gone forever, maybe Marina will develop some self-preservation and keep it safe. Maybe it won’t damage them that much. Maybe none of it will come back to Carla anyway because it’s her father’s business and it’s Ventura’s business. Her hands were never dirty. 

—  
The scream catches her off guard. 

She’s greeted by a bloodied Polo furiously scrubbing his hands clean, horrified at his own reflection. Marina’s trophy sits on the bathroom countertop. He extends the watch to her. 

Carla is almost giddy with relief, she doesn’t think twice about stripping Polo of his shirt and helping him scrub the blood away. Because Polo can’t think, she will guide him now; on what to do and say, on how to function. 

When he’s clean and in a fresh shirt, she coaches him: ‘Repeat after me. You were very drunk, so you went home. Then I texted you to return because something terrible happened.’ 

Christian watches in the background, a stranger to this dynamic.  



	2. Folie à Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU following 1x08. Character studies of Carla, Polo and Christian. Carla x Polo x Christian, some Carla x Samuel, Polo x Cayetana and Christian x Rebeka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: attempted suicide, anxiety attacks, hardcore drug use, gaslighting/emotional manipulation, exploration of co-dependency and finally, dubious consent because these kids are always having sex with an agenda :).
> 
> The AU I guess kind of begins at this point? You'll see hahaha. Honestly, at this point I'm just writing what I wish the series had been. Fingers crossed. I meant for this to have psychological thriller undertones, but I think it touches a lot on morality more than anything else. These three just make me very sad.

## chapter 2: folie à trois

* * *

It feels just like waking up from a slumber he did not realise he had fallen into as he comes to his senses. First, Polo’s hearing returns, surprisingly. He registers Marina making a choked noise in surprise, then he notices her pale hand on a patch of reddish curls, damp with blood. 

Polo frowns, looking down and in his right hand is the trophy, the white of its base slick and red. He swallows down bile as the clouds hanging over his mind lift and he connects the dots to a horrifying picture. He must have— there are holes in his memories as he tries of think about what happened but did he—?

Marina drops to her knees and the trophy almost slips in his grip, tilting dangerously towards the floor. He tightens his grip over the stem but the rest of his body is paralysed compared to his mind which spins with the gravity of the situation. He stumbles forward, barely steady and there’s nothing— nobody— here to hold him upright. Nobody to tell him what to do because that is what Polo needs, a guide; a tutor; a crutch.

His body feels old and weak, but there’s something fragile about his heart at this moment. It craves, in a juvenile way, a kind of warmth that’s nostalgic to him now; the feeling of Carla’s hand on his cheek as she tells him, she loves him more than ever.

He thinks it would make everything alright again— that feeling of being precious to someone. It seems so simple and straightforward, but so unattainable. As Marina collapses, now sprawled on the floor with a halo of blood, Polo sinks to his knees. He dry heaves and wheezes and barely manages to stop himself from vomiting. 

He thinks: _I’m sorry_. The connection between brain and mouth has crumbled and all he can do is remain on his knees, strangled by an emotion somewhere on the spectrum of fear and hatred. Marina’s eyes roll in her head, blearily meeting his with an accusatory spark. 

He screams. 

He screams and then he wants to throw himself in the pool, let them find both of them cold and dead here but as he edges closer to it, he stares first at the tiled floor under the water and then at his reflection in the dark water. His face is splattered in blood, mixing with his tears. They drip into the pool together, echoing in a maddening, hollow way. 

Is it survival instinct — or is it fear again? He thinks about his mothers crumpling over his corpse, sobbing endlessly, how he could only cause more damage by doing this. 

Pathetic — the thought cuts deep into Polo. A pathetic boy who can’t even repent correctly. You deserve to die, he thinks, as if talking to a stranger. 

His thoughts are colliding into each other, and from each collision, a new wave of thoughts spark in perfect synchronisation with his racing heart. None of them make sense. On one hand, he can only muster the cruellest and bitterest words to describe himself and on another, he knows — hopes — there must be people who care about him. His parents, his friends, Carla; not in the ways he wants, but she must love him in some way. 

He wants her to. He wants her reassuring words, her sweet smile — he wants her to tell him, _you did nothing wrong_ , because Polo can’t say it to himself. 

Or he knows, it’s not true and Carla is an excellent liar. So good that he might even be convinced that he’s deserving of pardon, deserving of her love, deserving of life. 

Polo scrambles for the watch and heads for the bathroom, barely an entire human being on the journey to find Carla. 

—  
Looking at himself in the mirror, clearer than the pool, makes him sick. He sets down the trophy and screams again, too spent for rational thought. On the way here he had to focus on the journey — where to turn, what door to push open. Now, his mind is at war with itself again. 

He can’t find the words at first, so he extends the watch to Carla, his grip slacking and fingers trembling. He’s acutely aware of her blood on his fingers, his face, in his hair. ‘I don’t think she’s breathing,’ Polo manages first. Ironically, he’s barely breathing as he speaks in a rush. ‘I don’t think she’s breathing. I don’t — I don’t think she’s breathing.’ 

‘Polo … what did you do?’ Carla takes the watch and every question is answered by the simple action. In a way, she’s unknowingly granted Polo the greatest possible relief as she wipes the watch down and tucks it into her bag. 

Then, her hands are on his face. She’s wiping blood off his temple and it’s only a shadow of the warmth he wants. She does it wordlessly, frowning the entire time but the action is so intimate — she never stops to ask for permission, nor to give him an explanation and he melts into her touch, relieved for something, anything from her that isn’t outright contempt. 

‘Get him a shirt.’ Carla throws the command over her shoulder to Christian who’s taking to alternating his stares between the two of them. He protests for a moment, but obliges 

In this state, it’s hard to track the passage of time. It could have been hours or minutes, but eventually, he’s cross-legged on the floor and trying to remember what a therapist told him once many years ago about managing anxiety. Focus on your breathing. In and out, in and out, like the steady, symmetrical ticking of a pendulum. 

Polo stares blankly at a wall as he scrubs at his fingers — it’s a phantom itch he’s trying to soothe. His nails are clean but he imagines her blood there, dark and dry. He sobs again, falling apart at the slightest touch; boy undone. Carla’s hand is at his shoulder, her fingers curving gently around the joint; like old times.

‘Thank you.’ She smiles and it tastes like validation. No, it can’t be that, but it’s close enough to it for Polo. ‘You’ve saved my family.’ 

Just like that, he lets her take care of him. It will be many years before he realises the imbalance of their relationship — of what he’s had to do for the smallest piece of kindness from Carla and that it’s not what he wants, much less what he needs. But the immediate sense of having a huge weight taken off his shoulders, of having someone to share that burden with outweighs everything else. 

—  
Polo is still cross-legged on the bathroom floor, but Carla keeps track of time. She helps him change into a fresh shirt and for now, there’s not much they can do with the one that’s bloodied except send it home with Polo for him to wash. 

He seems calm finally, eerily so. So she takes her eyes off him for a moment and turns to Christian who swallows thickly at the intensity of her expression. The trophy sits on the bathroom counter between them and even he isn’t dense enough to suggest returning to sex with it (and a catatonic Polo) still in the room. 

‘You have to get rid of it.’ 

Christian balks, but doesn’t voice the _are you fucking joking_ that comes to mind at the demand. He reaches out an arm, his fingers twitching in the general direction of the trophy but he doesn’t dare to pick it up just yet.

Carla expects this hesitation. ‘Polo is very distressed, as you can see,’ she explains smoothly. ‘I don’t think it’s wise for him to be alone. Surely, you don’t want another person injured today.’

This is the part of Carla that is the most dangerous; the part that seeks to control. ‘That’s not the point.’ Christian counters, looking over her shoulder to Polo. ‘He …’

Carla takes him by the elbow, imploring him again. ‘Christian, we protect each other.’

She’s deliberately vague — she could mean herself and him, as boyfriend and girlfriend, or she could mean him as one of them, standing among the elite. 

‘You’re one of us.’ 

Carla’s fingers remain on his elbow, light but very present. ‘Besides,’ she adds. ‘If you had just opened the locker, Polo would never have had to do this. It’s not like he wanted to, he _had_ to. To protect me.’ 

Christian freezes. A cold weight plunges into his stomach and his legs shake, the connection suddenly seeming obvious — he couldn’t have known it then, of course, but Marina’s death was so preventable. His pride stopped him from realising that. It was never about morality or goodness, he only ever wanted Carla to see him as an equal. A boyfriend. 

‘This is it, Christian.’ Carla offers. He’s at the gates to a new world and it doesn’t matter that he’s from the part of town where rough nights are aplenty and drugs are about as commonplace as water. 

‘Okay — okay, fine.’ 

Carla kisses him on the cheek and in her palm, he melts, desperate to replay those few seconds just to feel the simple gesture, the intimacy of it. ‘I’m your boyfriend, after all.’

—  
They sit on the floor of what once used to be his and Carla’s penthouse, all three of them. Polo looks as if he would rather disembowel himself than be in Christian’s presence because he doesn’t miss how much closer Carla seats herself to Christian than him. Christian shoots him a smug look, wrapping his arm around his girlfriend’s waist. 

‘What did they ask you for?’ Carla asks, serious. 

‘Security footage … I gave it to them. I told them I was drunk.’ Polo worries at his lip. Dark shadows hang under his eyes, the anxiety obvious in his every movement. Christian’s expression darkens. Yesterday, the police led Nano out of the school hall in handcuffs— Samuel was protesting behind them. 

‘They’re going to find out, Carla.’ Polo deflates. Christian unwraps his arm. The guilt comes and goes; it’s only been a day. He tries to distract himself with other things — mostly Carla and the more-than-occasional cigarette. He tries to tell himself he didn’t put Nano behind bars. 

Polo did that. 

Even he knows these are excuses, but he holds on to them. To turn Polo in, he would have to sacrifice Carla; he would have to sacrifice himself. They are king and queen now; no longer is he a pawn. 

‘No — no, they won’t.’ Carla assures him, tilting her chin upward with an air of certainty. ‘You had no reason to hurt Marina, in fact I’m more suspicious than you.’

Polo pinches the bridge of his nose, rising. Christian knows this to be a sign of an impending breakdown, as does Carla. 

‘Most importantly,’ Carla rises with Polo, taking him by the shoulders again. Christian remains on the floor. ‘Nano deserves to be in jail.’ 

Christian sees red — he leaps to his feet and spits a growl. Every permutation in his head to justify Nano’s imprisonment was accompanied by deep apology and a hope that Nano might understand if he ever learned of Christian’s involvement. To hear Carla’s blatant disregard stuns him to his core. 

‘Think about it,’ Carla turns to face him now. ‘What kind of _creep_ goes after a teenager? Marina was only sixteen. She was only sixteen and he got her pregnant — and then what, tried to convince her to run away with him? And leave her life behind to raise a _child_? Marina _was_ a child.’ 

Then, Christian pales. 

You don’t think enough, his father used to tell him, clapping him around the head. All you care about are parties and your _damn_ motorcycle. Not a thought in that head. 

‘And to his brother’s girlfriend too.’ Carla delivers the final blow. 

‘But he didn’t kill anyone.’ Christian mutters. Polo seems to fold in on himself in Carla’s grip. 

‘If he weren’t behind bars, he’d just find another rich teenager to rape and deceive.’ 

Christian’s not sure what Carla means — whether it’s to comfort Polo or if there’s truth in it. Nano; a solid friend, a top tier brother, a friend in times of need. Now he questions it all. Did he even know Nano in his entirety, did he know about the ugliest and most despicable parts of his friend, Christian wonders. 

—  
Christian comes home later and later in the aftermath of the incident. He hesitates to call it what it is because Carla always calls it an accident, an unfortunate incident, a mistake. Never murder. 

‘How nice of you to come back tonight,’ his mother snaps, sarcastic, as she turns on the porch lights. Her weathered face bears an expression of pure frustration; of not knowing what to do with him when he comes back smelling of cigarette smoke and alcohol. She worries more these days— that he might end up just like Nano. On the wrong side of a rich girl, then behind bars.

‘Would have been nice if you just let me know,’ she presses as he steps inside, slamming the door shut on his way in. ‘You know, because I’m your mother? Christian, I’m talking to you?’

‘I get it,’ he snaps. ‘I fucking get it.’

‘You failed four classes.’ 

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ He roars, spinning around. Everything is strange and he’s irrationally angry — first at Carla for suggesting Nano’s imprisonment was merited, now his mother. Sometimes, it’s as little as the corner store not stocking his favourite snack. He always wants to hit something; to make it hurt as much as he’s hurt and confused. 

‘You think that fancy school gave you a scholarship out of charity?’ His mother’s temper flares just as much as his own. ‘Son, they wanted to shut you up. You get the opportunity of a lifetime, you could go to university, get a great job — _everything_! And you’re still smoking and ditching your classes and now what?’ 

‘Now what?’ Christian bites back. 

‘Go to your room. Before your father gets back.’ 

‘Fuck off.’ He spits, resisting the urge to punch one of the walls. ‘Fuck off! I’m not going to be like Nano, I’m not like Nano, okay Mama?’

‘I— I didn’t say that.’ Now she backtracks, afraid of the implication that he, too, could be a murderer. That he had the potential. ‘I don’t want you to throw your life away.’ 

There is a reason they live here, in these shambles of a home. They don’t earn much; a pair of high school dropouts, his mother cleans houses and his father works at a bar. No wonder, Christian thinks bitterly, the most they could hope for is for him to not end up under a bridge. That’s success. 

‘You didn’t care before.’ 

‘I didn’t have hope before.’ 

She doesn’t mean for it to hurt, but it does and he doesn’t show it. Instead, he slips into his bedroom, sitting on the floor, thinking about it all. He’s Carla’s boyfriend. He’s going to graduate from Las Encinas. He can do more than not end up under a bridge. 

And then he thinks about Nano; about Nano throwing an arm over his shoulders; Nano buying him a leather jacket to match his motorcycle. ‘Fuck.’ Christian exhales, scrubbing his hands over his face. ‘Fuck, Nano, why did you have to fucking get yourself into this?’ 

He thinks he could live with anyone else taking the fall for Polo. 

—  
The day slips by in a blur. 

He jerks awake and his room is covered in blood. It’s smeared over his blue curtains; the ceiling; drips along his framed posters. Polo shivers at the volume of it, how it covers almost every surface. Marina’s disembodied voice echoes around him— _I pity you. I really do_. Then he startles awake, realising the first time was part of a dream. 

It’s only a feeling, he’s not sure she really said this: _Is it because I told you the truth_? 

Polo reaches for his phone, then sets it back down in a moment of indecision. Then desire outweighs his pride and he call Carla a few times, the yearning for her reassurance taking root inside him. Along with it is a deep sense of shame he doesn’t have the capacity to realise yet, let alone vocalise. He always needs Carla, like a child, but she never needs him. 

Of course she doesn’t pick up, it’s the middle of the night. 

[3:54:16] I miss you  
[3:54:21] I really do  
[3:55:02] I need you

He falls asleep on his side with his arm dangling off the edge of the bed, holding on the phone. His left side is numb when he wakes up, five minutes before his alarm goes off. There are two messages from her. 

[7:31:18] I care about you.  
[7:31:28] But we’re not together.

He sets the phone down, turning off his alarms as well and rolls over, adjusting the blankets around himself. He bats his mother away with an excuse about a migraine and drifts in and out of slumber, trying not to remember; care; hope. 

But how do you search for the absence of feeling? 

—  
Everything with Carla feels surreal and in the worst possible way. 

Lying under her, he sighs as she unbuttons his shirt, slow and teasing. Sex is always on Carla’s mind; even when she doesn’t want to have sex, it’s a weapon she’s learned to use. He wonders now if she’s trying to forget. He can guess what she might be trying to. 

‘Not in the mood.’ Christian straightens, chest tight and Carla’s hand freezes, resting on his stomach. 

She tilts her head. The innocence in her eyes is unnerving because Christian almost believes them. If he hadn’t lived through the last few days, he would never suspect a thing. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘I’m just not feeling like it.’ He shrugs. ‘Like I said. Not a dick on legs.’ 

‘You’re worried.’ 

Here it is; the anger is back. Christian growls, propelling himself backwards until his back meets the bedframe. ‘Newsflash Carla, we covered up a _murder_ , I guess that’s a bit worrying, huh?’

To her credit, Carla barely reacts. Perhaps this isn’t novel for her, or perhaps it isn’t real yet. She cups his cheek, just has she has so many times but never has Christian felt so unnerved by the gentle action. Her fingers are warm and soft. He would never have imagined her touch could scare him so much. 

‘Everything will be okay.’ Carla smiles. ‘Everything will. You’ll see.’

‘We didn’t have to do anything.’ Now, he’s desperate, less angry and more upset. Polo suddenly makes a lot of sense. ‘We could have just turned him in. We could have—’

Carla cups his face a little tighter, leaning in. ‘But you know I needed the watch.’

This is where he is weakest and softest, like a cornered animal rolling onto its back, exposing the soft flesh of its belly. He slumps against the crème pillows, trying to enjoy the feeling of Carla’s fingers slipping from his face, lower, along his chest. The tease at his waistband but she doesn’t proceed any further. Out of respect for his wishes, he hopes. 

Everyone lies, he remembers. Everyone lies most of all to themselves. 

‘You are my boyfriend.’ Carla’s at his side now, her head pressing against his shoulder. She drapes an arm over his torso, looking up into his eyes. Hers are serene; unbothered. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen to you.’ 

She reaches for his right hand and he gives it to her, weakly believing. ‘I know.’ 

—  
Carla is well-practiced in many areas, but her expertise is rejecting reality. For many years, she and Marina had been fairweather friends, but that culminated with Marina seeking her compassion to orchestrate a theft. In her mind, it feels like a distant dream, as if she’s hearing about a stranger’s demise. 

She didn’t see it happen; she didn’t even see the police shuffle Marina’s body into a black bag and wheel her out of the school. There is no void left by her death — or maybe Carla is just telling herself that for now — because they had been distant for so long already. 

If it were Lu … 

If it were Lu or Guzmán or Polo, she thinks things might have been different. 

Carla exhales softly, expelling a wave of doubt with it. Straightening her back, she slips downstairs to her father’s study, greeting him with an unwavering smile.

Things have been excellent lately — with the watch returned, everything is well. Her father doesn’t know all the details exactly, but he knows it has to do with Marina’s death and he knows Nano’s not to blame. That much was immediately obvious to him when Carla produced the watch. 

How mysterious, he had remarked, that the mastermind behind the crime dies one night and Carla returns with the watch the next morning.

‘Are you alright, my dear?’ Teodoro remarks from his high-backed quilted chair. ‘You seem distracted. 

‘Fine, papa.’ Carla answers, holding the door open as her father rises. ‘Will you join us for breakfast? The cook made pancakes, they smell delicious.’ 

‘Of course.’ 

Teodoro slips closer to her, pausing by the door. He observes her for several moments, and she returns his look, rising to the challenge with ease. This is her at the top of her game — at her very best form. Everything is going smoothly, everything will be alright. She has nothing to fear; the watch is safe and Marina’s killer — or who the world believes to be her killer — will be behind bars for a long time. 

Every now and then, as she thinks of Marina, a hint of pity washes over her. That Marina died so young and so painfully and that it could have been avoided entirely. She didn’t know Polo would take it so far with Marina, but she’s not sure what she expected him to do. 

Back then, she had exhausted every avenue with Marina. She just hoped Polo or Christian — either of them — could devise a way to help her.

‘And your boyfriend, Christian was it?’ Teodoro continues, still hovering by the door. His insistent eyes bore into Carla’s, suspicious as always. Carla holds her breath.

‘Will he be joining us?’

‘He didn’t stay the night.’ Carla schools her features; she shouldn’t relax so obviously. ‘But he says hello.’ 

‘How polite.’ Her father’s eyes narrow, sceptical. ‘He seems good to you.’ 

‘He is.’

Teodoro hums. ‘Good. Good, good … ’

‘You can trust him, Papa.’ Carla smiles a little wider now. ‘He would never betray me.’ She doesn’t elaborate on what she means, but they both know this: Teodoro doesn’t believe in her innocence, nor Christian’s or Polo’s. When Carla mentioned her break up, he nodded, sympathetic but unconcerned and he was proven right.

There are ties that bind the three of them and now, they are bindings made of Marina’s blood. 

‘I’m glad.’ His smile is thin, stretched very tight. In his own way, this is a form of worry. He worries what Carla may have walked into, what Christian’s involvement is, whether he will ruin his own life and Carla’s while he is at it. His eyes rest on her for a moment longer, questioning, before he turns to look at the far end of the hallway. 

‘Breakfast?’ 

‘Of course.’ 

They sit down and her mother joins them. The conversation switches to idle chatter about school and work. Carla picks at a croissant and some fruit. She doesn’t register hunger much these days — sometimes the feeling only strikes her after she remembers to eat. More important things occupy her mind. 

Life will go on, Carla reminds herself. Birth and death are a normal part of the human experience. Each one of them will find a way to recover and continue. This will all be a distant memory one day and until then, she has to hold on, survive, and live through every moment no matter how difficult. She will make it.

After all, Christian’s fingerprints are on the trophy with Polo’s, and hers are not.


End file.
